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USING THE BIKE FOR A DIFFERENT KIND OF 'SPINNING'

Ten
minutes after the medic removed the wide-gauge needle from my arm, I was
stamping on the pedals, surging away from the clinic through rush hour traffic
– head held high. The fresh, bloody, track mark on the inside of my elbow was
concealed by a strip of medical tape and a plaster. But I was making no attempt
to hide the fact that my inner arm had recently received a jab.

This is
not a stark, Armstrong-esque, confession. I’m no amateur blood doper. I’m
certainly not a pro cyclist!

In truth,
I’d just spent an hour and a half at the NHS Donor
Centre, at St George’s Hospital, in Tooting, south London, while a very
large needle, drew out and returned, small quantities of blood.

No hiding
on the floor of a team coach for me. In plain sight, I’d been hooked up to an
apheresis machine which separated platelets from the rest of my blood – aptly
enough, by spinning it - before pumping what remained back into my body. This
process is repeated, over an hour or more (typically 90 minutes in my case),
until the required amount of yellowish fluid – the platelets - has filled the
sterile collection bag hanging from a hook.

What has
this to do with cycling? My brother-in-law, Mike, received countless, crucial,
platelet transfusions over the best part of a year, while he was being treated
for acute
myeloid leukaemia. There’s no telling how he would have coped for so long
without those invaluable units of platelets. In a healthy body they are what
causes the blood to clot and so prevent bleeding.

Heart-breakingly,
Mike died at the start of February 2014, leaving behind his wife and two young
children.

Before
he’d reached the end of that struggle with AML, when we were chatting brightly
about a post-recovery period which never came, we’d talked about taking part in
some cycling events such as the London Duathlon, held every September in
Richmond Park. Then my wife, Jacqueline, had her ‘eureka’ moment, suggesting
that she and I, enter the four-day, London to Paris, fund-raising ride
organised by the Leukaemia and Lymphoma Research charity (now renamed Bloodwise - for whom we are always fundraising) .

It’s hard
to find the time to train for long-distance events like London to Paris. We
were facing 500km on the bike. And, while 26 miles a day, two-wheeled,
commuting helped me, Jacqueline’s only pedalling was done once a week in a
gym’s spinning class.

Radical
action was needed. We plumped for a one-week, cyclists’ training camp in
Mallorca, choosing the Stephen Roche
operation based in Palmanova, right next to Magaluf, where shepherd’s pie and
full English breakfasts regularly nudge paella and tapas off the top of
restaurant menus.

Stephen
Roche is arguably Ireland’s best-known professional rider (alongside Sean
Kelly). In one year alone – 1987 – he famously won the World Championship road
race, the Giro d’Italia and - after his celebrated, gritty, climb back into GC
contention at La Plagne - the Tour de France. His son too became a prominent
feature of the pro peleton and Stephen’s Mallorca business – based on what we
witnessed – is booming.

It was a
pleasure to wake up in sunny Spain early each May morning without feeling the
after effects of a night spent downing cold beer and sangria. We were there to
cycle, not paint the town red. And cycle we did.

Before
each day’s ride, we’d gather in the bike garage in the hotel basement and,
echoing the pros at the start of their races, we’d sign our names on a large
whiteboard, choosing from four groups, graded into speed sets.

St Elm

Ride
captains took charge of each mini peleton for the duration of the ride. Several
people who suffered punctures were handed a team leader’s wheel so they could
keep going - another gratifying imitation of pro cycling.

There was
a distinctly international air about the holiday. At meal times we shared
bottles of wine with fellow cyclists from France, Switzerland, Ireland, England
and Canada. We may have been complete strangers but our shared interest meant
that we were soon talking and swapping stories, as if we’d been chain gang
comrades for years.

My Popeye impression

Where
else would you become friends with a master potter from the midlands of
England, who’d made his home in Finland? Or a lanky French rouleur with a
twinkle in his eye who - after much prodding – revealed that he was a computer
programmer for the French army. But of course, he wasn’t really supposed to
tell us that. He was on his 16th Stephen Roche camp.

Each
evening the following day’s route maps and elevation profiles were placed in
the centre of the table in lieu of a menu. They provided ample subject for
conversation.

Magaluf - where steak and kidney pie tops the menu

Forget
the bars and discos which cater for rowdy stag and hen parties, the island of
Mallorca itself is a gem. And there’s no better way to experience the beautiful
scenery of villages like Gallilea and Valledemossa; or the majestic, coiling Sa
Calobra climb, than from the saddle of a bike.

Our
Mallorca week gave our London to Paris training a much-needed fillip. And it
surely helped us trundle across the cobbles and into Paris in due course. With
help from Mike’s wife and children we raised almost £7,500 for Bloodwise.

My
platelet donations are inextricably linked therefore to my cycling. Both are
closely associated with my brother-in-law’s leukaemia. After 90 minutes
‘hooked’ up to a machine each month, I wear those needle marks with pride. If
anyone asks about them – and I hope they do – I can tell them the whole story.
If nothing else I’ll be raising awareness about Bloodwise and its work. And who
knows, they might make a donation of their own – of the charitable, cash, kind.

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